The Wind Lord Potter
by Swallow-Tailed Kite
Summary: Because Death goes to extraordinary lengths to ensure its Master's survival, Harry Potter saw empires rise and fall, worlds collapse from his eagle's view high up in the sky. Over land and sea he went, until he encountered some higher beings-the Valar, as they call themselves-and watched the rise and fall of a new Dark Lord, Rings, and a journey to bring the Lord down.
1. Chapter 1

**The Wind Lord Potter**

A/N: 'llo! Thanks for taking the time to read this fic ^^. I may have gotten some facts wrong, like Melkor and the Ainur, what exactly happened in the First Age and such, so if you spot any mistakes, please tell me so I can fix them. Did you know writing is a really good time-killer—especially on road trips?

Disclaimer: Don't own. 

Read and Review!

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There was never a single second where Harry Potter did not rue the day he claimed the title 'Master of Death'. Out of the Golden Trio, Hermione was the last to pass into Death's domain, still fretting over how to help Harry get rid of his unwanted title.

Teddy was the last one he had close contact with. When he, too, passed to the one place Harry could not follow, Harry drowned himself in his own grief, turning to his Animagus form to escape the world. It helped him cope better, detaching himself from the memories. The skies would forever embrace him, the wind always at his back.

A golden eagle could be seen circling above what once was Godric's Hollow. In the west, tourists pointed to a bird constantly above the ruins of a once grand castle, wore down by time.

Then the world crumbled around him, and he flew across barren land and sea and molten lava, in search of life. From the ashes of the old world, another one rose.

In his travel, Harry Potter encountered a strange group of _beings_ in a place that was not-really-a-place, and exists in the same way that it does not, like a parallel pane, yet very much involved in the workings of the New World.

He noted them, just as they noted him—"Old one", Manwë said to Varda—and followed them for a while. It was really hard to follow something that _only_ existed in the world, unfelt and seen only as light. Still, Harry managed, if only out of sheer curiosity, and the two parties 'sat down' and talked.

Manwë gave him the title of Wind Lord, and Oromë took Harry to his 'workshop' and moulded him a new form, designed after his Animagus form, yet countless times bigger, and named it Gwaihir. Harry found that they harnessed the wild forces of magic as good as how Harry did the wind, and one day, down on the land, where trees now grew and animals abound, Harry Potter encountered the fair folk of Elves. Graceful and fair, with an ethereal beauty and an innate magic.

Harry had laughed to himself. The Valar, as the beings have called themselves, have started to_ create_, and he suspected they modelled their Children after himself (he thinks it's a perfectly great starting place for newly formed deities, even if they don't carry black hair). Next came the Men, and Harry watched from far above as they formed villages and grew into cities.

Then, when more than six centuries passed since he encountered Elves, when Harry returned to his nest-bed, he found a handful of chicks chirping loudly, a decent size larger than the usual birds he saw and he chuckled. Without a second thought, he took off to hunt, feeding and raising the chicks until they became adults and sought after their own mates and had their own young. He noted—with no small degree of satisfaction and pride—that his own Great Eagle form was still bigger than all the others. One among the hatchlings grew to be king, and took over as head of the aerie.

Then Melkor did something (Harry wasn't too sure what) and with that came an awful time. There was music, God and Valar, and the mess that followed spanned for quite some millennia (he really missed the times when he could say 'years')_._ He was awfully out of his depth here, and just watched as the newly formed earth was pulled under again and again in periods of dark and evil.

_Finally_, when things just about settled—not really, but were more stable than before, _another_ dark lord came about. When Sauron emerged, Harry flew off in a rage, fully prepared to stomp out the rising Dark Lord before he can cause more damage. Oromë caught him before he could, and with a mournful expression, told him that he could not interfere, and Harry in all his rage, only managed to remember something along the lines of 'balance and equilibrium', and 'reliance'.

Remembering Voldemort and his crimes, and upon knowing that Sauron created the Rings of Power, Harry protested violently against the Valar—who cares about divine intervention when people were going to _die?!_ When he found that Sauron had 'poured his essence' into the One Ring in a _very_ disturbing way much like the horcruxes he once destroyed yet was more powerful and more sentient, Harry blew his fuse. In a (relatively childish but still very huge) fit, he set out to ignore the gods of Arda because one, he wasn't going to ignore another near mass extinction, two, he wasn't at the 'divine' stage—all he can do was not die, and not make living thinking, sentient things into being (conjuration doesn't count)—and so is fully able to enter the mass without overly tipping the scale.

Well into the Third Age, Harry started becoming a little careless. As Gwaihir, he had flown over an orc camp, and he had forgotten how advanced bows and arrows had become. A sharp, searing pain in his wing reminded him of the fact. Cursing himself in all the languages—a considerable lot (because once you lived so long, there were just some periods of boredom that never seem to go away)—he crash-landed into a desert.

There, Harry met Olorin, and was strongly reminded of old Dumbledore. When Olorin managed to stop the pain, he bowled the _very_ old man over in an enthusiastic nuzzle and told the Istar to contact him should help be ever needed. Through the _millennia_, he was called on for various small favours which he did without complaint.

Once, after his yearly visit to Erebor, he passed through Minas Tirith (now a very grand city fortress) and Harry decided—on a whim and because he was in part very drunk from Dwarvish parties (Harry decided never to touch Elvish wine after that-Dwarvish drinks were strong enough, thank you very much)—to act as a message bird for the first person that found him.

It turned out to be the army captain, a scruffy young man called Thorongil. Harry witnessed countless victories won by the man, and provided aid whenever it was desperately needed (just a little help. Nothing too big). He played his part as a loyal bird very well, including taking an arrow to the wing (and _man -_ did that hurt!), and experienced first-hand what herbal medicine tasted like (he swore that the vile taste still lingered in his mouth. He really missed the potions. They don't taste nearly as bad).

When Thorongil left the field, Harry, feeling a little affectionate to his ex-'owner' (to his alarm), decided to leave too.

He drifted about, switching from 'owner' to 'owner', and heard alarming rumours during his time as a 'pet'. A mysterious gold ring. Isengard's dubious acts. Necromancer in Dol Guldur. Moria turning into an infested place of evil. The Nazgûl on the move.

And then Harry knew that Valar or no, he would be not be standing aside in the events about to unfold—even if all he did was to spit in Mordor's gloom (and he would very much like to do that).

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Beta'd by lifeofpizza. 


	2. Chapter 2

Really, really sorry about the wait and the length of this chapter. It's supposed to be twice as long, but then I noticed that I had made a huge error at the second part, and in turn need to rewrite the rest of it. And so...

This is the result.

I'll try to work out a schedule so there won't be too many months long wait next time!

Disclaimer: No own for either.

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**Chapter I**

Harry peered down at the dark figure in the forest below, following the rider as it wound across the forest at an unnatural pace. Then it screeched, a loud, horrible scratching noise ten times worse than nails on blackboards. He winced, feeling a sharp pain in his head as the noise was echoed by other wraiths in the region. _At least it isn't Voldemort,_ Harry thought, but he much preferred his scar-centred headaches to the general headaches the screeches cause. In all serious thought, he would also rather suffer the wraiths than Voldemort. May the old bastard (in all sense of the word) remain forever in… hell (did hell still exist anymore)? Harry had enough of _those_ troubles.

Another screech cut through his thoughts, and he regretted the decision to follow the wraiths. Harry rather liked his head pain-free, and listening to the ghastly things weren't really accomplishing that—and he wasn't even _close_ to the nine-damned creatures.

Sure, they were here for a purpose, and the wraiths were no bad hunters, but it was a serious pain in the neck (the bit above the neck, actually) to follow them. Ahead, he could see the village of Bree in the distance. He tilted his head and peered at the streets. Few people were out—good—and the brightest light was coming from the inn. Looks like old Butterbur had some new arrivals. Looking down again, he startled when the wraiths suddenly picked up speed racing across the plains with newfound vigour. As if a beacon had been lit. And Harry suddenly realised what it meant.

The Ring was on the loose—not in his hands, thankfully—and the Nazgûl were hunting it. And Annatar (more accurately, Sauron, for Annatar was no more than an alias) was coming back.

Harry winged ahead, diving down behind a cottage and shifting into his 'Man' form even before he reached the ground. He landed lightly on bare feet and looked around. Nonverbally, he transfigured some plants into clothes suitable for the age and slipped into it. The Elder Wand (Harry realised what made the wand so unique and powerful—the thing was freaking unbreakable) he slipped into his sleeve and held his holly-and-phoenix feather one in his hand, hidden from sight by his palm.

It was unlikely for anyone of Bree to have the Ring for the Nazgûl would surely head there first, so it must be a traveller, a passer-by, and they would have to stop at the inn. At that moment, there was a loud commotion from the inn, and he slipped in quietly, unnoticed.

"He was just there-"

"-disappeared-"

"Very interesting trick-"

"-can anyone vanish into thin air?"

Snatches of conversation stood out to him. Does the Ring make people to be invisible? Yes, it does. Harry swallowed nervously, throat suddenly feeling very dry. So that's why the wraiths suddenly sped up. They suddenly received a _very_ strong signal to the area.

Harry looked around the bar. People were huddled in small groups over round wooden tables, and the innkeeper was standing to one side, looking very flustered and red. Seeing nothing of interest, Harry exited the room as silently and unnoticed as he came in. Might as well keep an eye out for the wraiths.

A moth fluttered outside nervously, and upon sensing him, it flew up to his ear and whispered its valuable message to Harry. "Olorin is kept prisoner by who?" He questioned, disbelieving. The moth whispered again.

"Curumo you blasted bloody traitor!" Harry hissed, rubbing his temples.

An echoing screech—one that didn't seem to be too far away—caused Harry to look around in alarm. The timing was awful. If the wraiths ever—if they captured the Ring, everything would be done for. Even so, he couldn't just leave Olorin just _there_ as a prisoner! He was a friend, and reminded Harry of his _other_ old and bearded mentor, and even if he disregarded those reasons, _Olorin saved his life_ (if he was actually at a threat of dying. Still, he didn't fancy meeting Death again and in such a painful fashion).

Pushing the pain and disappointment of the betrayal aside, Harry glanced back at the inn again, and made up his mind. He scratched a series of (really, very) ancient Egyptian runes in the soil and then sprinted towards the edge of Bree. If anything, the runes would hold the wraiths back for awhile at least.

Mid-jump, Harry shifted into his first Animagus form, taking off with a few flaps until he caught a rising updraught. The wind, never failing, carried his body upwards gently and pushed him forwards. The moth had latched itself onto his tail feathers, and he sent mental thanks to the little creature.

Harry briefly entertained the thought of _accio_-ing the Istar, but discarded the thought almost immediately. He had yet to try it on a person, and didn't particularly want to injure the Grey Wizard since _accio_ caused the object to go the shortest and fastest route towards the summoner and he'd really rather not drag Olorin through a brick wall or something similar. Frowning as best as a bird could, he tried to remember how the Orthanc looked like.

Destination, determination, deliberation.

The scenery morphed and twisted, and the rubber tube sensation squeezed him out at the base of Orthanc. The moth detached itself from his tail feather unsteadily (Harry muttered an apology to the poor thing) and fluttered upwards. Harry circled the bottom, keeping an eye on the happenings above and using the other to look around at what Curumo had been up to.

There was some raised voices above, and Harry rose upwards, staring upwards with his full attention. Not too soon after, a body fell from the platform above. He caught Gandalf easily on his back and shot off, not wanting to risk Saruman sending his pet crebain (contrary to popular beliefs, hawks and eagles are not truly fearless. Crows are intimidating.) after him. He sped up, intent on getting as far away from Isengard as he could.

"To Bree, my old friend," came Gandalf's voice. "I have some business there."

"_Does business happen to include a plain, Black-Speech inscribed gold ring?_" Harry asked. Gandalf always seemed to know almost everything around here. Harry rather thought he was the media of Arda—first to be there at any major event.

He felt Gandalf stiffen slightly. "I had no idea the news have travelled so far."

"_It did not. The wraiths were mobilising, and I followed them to Bree._"

"To Bree?"

Harry heard a sharp intake of breath.

"If so, we must make haste. May we not be too late."

"_Why are they heading to Bree?_" Harry questioned, even as he picked up speed.

"They are tracking the Ring-bearer. He will set out on the task to destroy the ring, and it will cost him much."

Harry had a sudden moment of nostalgia. "_Does he not have a say in the matter?_"

"What choice there is, when the other is the end of all we know? I would have asked for you to bear his burden with him, and take him to the Mountain, but alas," Gandalf sighed. "You and I are not to intervene. We must each play our part, and pray he succeeds in this perilous quest."

"_Do you really think it will be that bad if Sauron won?_"

"That bad and worse."

_"Bree in just a moment_."

-:|`´|:-

When Gandalf staggered into the inn, Harry glanced around. It was late at night, and the stars were very visible against the dark sky. He could identify a few of the constellations, but many of the ones he were used to had changed. Then after Gandalf threatened, hugged, and left a confused Butturbur on the doorsteps of the Prancing Pony, they headed to Rivendell.

Although Harry had been to (read: above) Rivendell countless times, and was actually in the city thrice, he was still amazed by the architecture and beauty of the Elvish city.

Like their builders, the buildings possessed an ethereal beauty and a glow that made the city seem bright even at night. Two imposing Elf guards stood on either side of the bridge, their gold armour gleaming in the moonlight. When Harry spotted them and they saw him, he gave them a regal nod and landed, carefully putting down his precious cargo.

Elrond was notified, and within minutes, the Lord of Imladris was _gliding_ down the gold rimmed stairs (Harry was _not_ jealous. No sir he wasn't. _Elves and their damned elegance_). The Grey Wizard was carried off (Gandalf protested loudly at this treatment) to the infirmary and then Harry was left alone with the two guards.

With another nod, he took off to the air, and shifted into the Great Eagle's smaller counterpart then dived downwards in a spiral. He landed neatly outside the infirmary and peered inward. Gandalf had his wounds cleaned up, but there weren't too many. Thank the Valar for hardy five-thousand-and-more-centuries-old wizards.

Already he was looking better, so when Elrond left him, Harry hopped in and perched himself on the bedside table. Gandalf stared at him for a long while in silence. Harry stared back. Gandalf raised an eyebrow and lit his pipe. Harry snorted—a really odd sound from a bird—and once he asserted that that the Istar was really okay, he flew out again, tracing the most common route used to travel from Bree to Rivendell.

There were the sounds of yelling and metal clashing at Weathertop, so he winged his way down to take a better look. There were three—big feet, short but adult appearance—hobbits and a man fighting the Nazgûl, but at the current rate, they were failing at that. Harry wondered what the hobbits were doing so far from the Shire, then stared at the very familiar looking man who was whirling around with a branch alit with flames. The wraiths shrieked and gave him a wide berth, circling him cautiously. The rest converged to a point on the floor, when one suddenly stabbed its blade down. There was a cry, and a figure flickered into being.

Harry fell five meters as a wizard, casted a disillusionment charm and a cushioning charm on himself and the floor respectively, then sent streams of flame to the extremely flammable robes of the wraiths. Really, for a creature so afraid of fire, it was ironic that they wore clothes so easily torched. Shrieking and screeching loudly, the Nazgûl fled. Harry retreated into the shadows and lifted the charm before shifting and shooting forward at the man.

Thorongil looked startled, hand flying towards his newly sheathed sword. Seeing that it was a bird, he knelt down beside the stabbed hobbit, who was deathly pale.

"What's wrong with him?" one asked fearfully.

"Stabbed, by a Morgul-blade." Thorongil said grimly, watching as the blade disintegrated until he was holding only the hilt.

"Samwise! Get athelas!"

"But sir, isn't it a weed?"

And a great plant with plenty of healing properties too, Harry added mentally and took off to find the herb.

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Beta'd by lifeofpizza.


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